


Broadsword training results - summary and conclusions

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Crack, Like, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming, Shameless Smut, Smut, also bottom!melkor, but that is kind of always My Thing, rather kinky but not too much, terrible use of tags, the whole thing is an excuse for porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 04:07:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4946089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mairon has a lot of work, which includes resolving the conflicts between various peoples united in alliance with Angband, solving mystery puzzles that happen to be maps drawn by a very artistically-impaired vampire, planning battle strategies with the long-term goal of conquering the world in mind, performing foot massages and reading smut... wait, what?<br/>A perfectly reasonable day when no Elves attack the fortress takes a very unexpected turn. Mairon is not sure he keeps up with the events.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broadsword training results - summary and conclusions

**Author's Note:**

> Before you start reading, please know that I apologize for having created this thing. I wanted to write light-hearted angbang. I wanted to write comedy with a nice amount of fluff and Mairon massaging Melkor's foot to make it better. Mid-writing, it decided to turn into... this. Thing.  
> I am sincerely sorry for any brain damage this may induce. Also for the porn. Wait, no. I am not sorry for the porn.

There are definite disadvantages to being the Lieutenant to the mightiest of the Valar. Not that many, of course, and they are mostly overshadowed by the multitude of positive points; still, at times, Mairon wants nothing more than to hide away in his forges and commit himself to hard and rewarding physical labour that results either in some genius creation or absolute, terrifying destruction. This is one of these times; sat at the spacious war table, with his face in his hands, the Lieutenant of Angband is currently very seriously considering retirement.

The reason for this is the report sitting in front him, which is not a common occurrence. At first sight, it looks innocent enough and Mairon has had no cause to suspect anything would be wrong with it as he accepted it on his desk earlier in the morn. It is the correct format, average length bordering on too long, and written with the standard regulation ink in rich red colour – his favourite, which is why he made it regulation. The problems begin when one tries to actually read the contents of the report.

_(His narrow, freckled hips rose and fell in frantic movement as he began to ride his Master's hard cock. His lips fell open in a silent scream when his Master pulled harshly on his flaming red hair.)_

'This is ridiculous,' Mairon mutters to himself. He pushes the offending piece of parchment away from himself so violently that it falls to the floor. He considers trampling it and throwing it into the nearest fire source, then he sighs and picks it back up. This is definitely not what he expected to see, yes, but such a reaction would be irrational. No. He needs the piece as evidence in case he finds the perpetrator of this very much not amusing joke.

The headline, he checks again, is absolutely proper and relevant: _Broadsword training results – summary and conclusions._ He asked Gothmog for this exact report two nights before. What he did not ask for is this – this travesty that he has in front of him.

_(“Master!” He moaned helplessly. He closed his eyes when his Master kissed him on the lips. The kiss was bruising and demanding, harsh like his Master's entire demeanour and the Lieutenant loved every second of it. His cock twitched at the rough treatment, earning him a chuckle from his Master as a reward._

“ _Be good, Mairon,” his Master growled into his ear._

_His deep rumbling voice and the way he drew out the consonants in his name made the Lieutenant shiver all over. He could hardly concentrate on the task at hand. With effort, he lifted his hips once_ _more and then pushed down, impaling himself on his Master's shaft. A whine escaped his lips.)_

'Broadsword training _my ass_ ,' Mairon says and scowls.

If this is Gothmog's idea for a joke, and he suspects it is – nobody would ever accuse the Captain of Balrogs of being possessed of an ounce of good taste - it is definitely in poor taste. Mairon is a busy Maia, he has hundreds of other reports to review and many battle plans to, well, plan, not to mention other activities which require his more or less immediate attention; he has no time to read badly written porn delivered to him under false pretences. No time and no inclination. Maybe such things are entertaining for the Orcs-

He blanches at the thought of the Orcs being entertained by the piece of smut he is currently faced with.

'I will kill Gothmog on sight,' he promises to the inkwell and fresh parchment laid out further on the table, next to the spreadsheet of the battlements and the beautifully crafted candleholder made of the purest gold in his own forges. The sight of an item of his make somewhat calms his bloodlust, but he supposes it is not for long. Not after an offence so... offensive.

The door opens. Mairon looks up to see the mightiest of the Valar, his Lord Melkor walking his way with a concealed, but still somewhat visible limp. He quickly shuffles the papers to hide the offending report from prying eyes. A few lines of text are still visible above a messily drawn map of Middle-earth and he cannot help but scan them quickly even as he wonders what it is that made his Master leave his chambers in search of him instead of sending summons for him from said chambers or even the throne room.

_(His Master's cock hit a spot deep inside of him at every thrust and the Lieutenant felt himself edging closer and closer towards completion. He bit his lip. He was not allowed to come before his Master, and his Master seemed to be unmoved by the Lieutenant's efforts. With new-found resolve, the Lieutenant took him deeper, clenching his walls tighter. He was rewarded when he heard his Master groan in pleasure.)_

'Mairon,' Melkor demands.

The Maia immediately shifts his attention to his Master. He is thankful for his very useful ability to control his body reactions, because otherwise, his blush would be rather evident – and, obviously, the Lieutenant of Angband does not do such things as _blushing_. He is no young maiden or a stammering stable boy.

Melkor seats himself swiftly in the armchair to Mairon's left. The chair is there exclusively for his comfort, although he might not be aware of that fact. He most likely assumes that his various hurts are completely invisible to the other inhabitants of the fortress. Mairon does not correct this assumption, but he makes sure that nobody ever speaks of any of their Master's failings when they are noticed – and that comfortable pieces of furniture are in abundance in every room.

He is the best Lieutenant, after all.

'Is there anything I can do for you, my Lord?' He asks when he notices Melkor looking at him expectantly.

'I was wondering,' the Vala replies, then pauses. 'What do you have there?' He asks and points at the papers laid out right in front of Mairon.

The Lieutenant would go very pale if his skin was any lighter. He remains his usual dark brown, but he can feel a single bead of sweat forming on his temple. It evaporates quickly without a trace thanks to his body heat; he briefly wonders if he could set himself on fire.

(Yes, he could. But he does not think it would help avoid his Master's questioning look.)

'Nothing, my Lord,' he lies smoothly. 'Reports from the officers. Extremely boring reports,' he adds just in case the Vala decides he wants to read what his officers have to say. It would be a first, but one can never be too careful. Not when so much is at stake.

Like the sanity of a certain Lieutenant. Along with his career and, possibly, his life.

Melkor narrows his eyes suspiciously. 'It does not look like a report,' he says. Before Mairon can react, the Vala reaches for the paper he has been eyeing and grabs it, 'A-ha!' He calls out in triumph as he reveals his spoils:

The plan of battlements.

_(His Master's breath quickened when the Lieutenant slowed his movements to make them that much more sensual._

“ _Let me take care of you,” the Lieutenant whispered, leaning in to lick his Master's ear._

“ _I want you to fill me with your essence,” he added hotly. He hesitated briefly before he bit down on the delicate earlobe. It earned him another soft groan and his Master's hands on his hips tightened their hold: a clear sign that he was close.)_

Melkor pays no mind to the remaining papers as he examines the map curiously. It is rather primitive, as far as Mairon is concerned, because it was drawn mid-flight by Thuringwethil who was, at the time, in her bat form; hardly any help in the overall plans, but at least it seems to be interesting to the Vala. The Lieutenant sighs inwardly. If Melkor were more invested in forming battle plans with him, maybe a simple sketchy map scratched in coal by a glorified blood-sucking rat with terrible vision would not be such a novelty to him. Still, he has to admit that his Master's enthusiasm is-

A little bit adorable.

 _I did not just think that_ , he informs himself, horrified and ashamed at his own blatant disrespect. It is very much unlike him to have such thoughts of his Master, whom he admires greatly for his power and whom he willingly follows into war over the rule of Arda. Definitely, he only ever thinks of Melkor in the most professional of manners. The explanation for this sudden divergence is simple: he must be tired. It has been a trying year all over.

The wretched piece of smut that definitely does not affect him in appropriate ways has nothing to do with it.

'I was wondering, Mairon,' Melkor says from where he is once more seated in the armchair, having discarded the battlement plan after his initial curiosity was satisfied. He is discreetly shifting around, trying to find a comfortable position which would not put too much pressure on his left foot.

Mairon wants to kill the Elf responsible for his Master's suffering. Since the Elf is already dead, he wonders if he could resurrect him just to kill him again. He will have to work on an enchantment capable of doing that... and then he will have to find the damn Elf's body which was carried away by the Void-cursed eagles into the distance. Well. All in due time. He will avenge his Master once they are finished with the current task of conquering all of Arda.

'I heard talk among the Orcs,' Melkor continues, oblivious to Mairon's inner turmoil.

'What about, my Lord?' Asks Mairon, frowning. Orcs like to talk about the most nonsensical things. He is not sure he wants his Master anywhere near them when they start to spread their ridiculous gossip. Very ridiculous. Very insolent, too. Actually, he is not sure if he should not make their idle chatter somehow illegal. Do they not have more useful activities, anyhow? Such as training so that the army would finally beat those annoying Noldor bastards?

'Have you heard of a thing called _massage_?' Melkor asks seriously.

Mairon blinks, confused at the seemingly out-of-the-blue question, and stares at him. 'I... have,' he admits. His mind must be overheated, because his imagination is forcing very indecent and weird, for lack of a better word, images into his head: of Gothmog laid on his stomach with a tall, well-built Elven slave on top of him, massaging his shoulders. He can almost hear the Balrog captain's blissful purr.

He shakes his head. Tired. He is tired. Definitely.

(Also, he is pretty sure he has actually witnessed the scene in reality, but his mind has been ineffectually trying to erase it from his memory because of the over-abundance of disturbing content.)

'Tell me, then: can this massage... alleviate pain?' Melkor inquires, looking at Mairon with an intensity that is making him uncomfortable.

'I guess it can, my Lord,' Mairon replies, frowning in thought, 'I suppose it depends on the type. There are many kinds of massages, I have been told.'

'I see,' says the Vala thoughtfully. He returns his gaze to the previously abandoned plan of battlements, but he seems to be lost in deep thoughts.

For a moment, the room is completely silent save for their breathing which – Melkor has been breathing since his return from captivity and Mairon, initially bewildered by the seemingly useless habit, adopted as soon as he understood the new situation, so that his Master did not feel the difference between them too acutely. Mairon is considering returning to work – and by _work_ he does NOT mean reading Gothmog's disgusting pastiche of a report – but he is not given the opportunity to do so. A deep sigh from his Master breaks the silence and Mairon reacts immediately.

'My Lord, is there something troubling you? Anything you need that I can provide?' He asks. He pretends he has not noticed the concern that laces his voice. If anyone wonders, of course he is concerned! His Master is burdened with many a care; for someone like Mairon, whose whole life is completely devoted to making the Vala content by whatever means possible, this is definitely a reason to start worrying.

'I have a request,' Melkor says. 'You are, of course, not obliged to heed it. I simply do not trust anybody else with this due to the... delicate nature of this request.'

If it were anybody else but the mightiest of the Valar, Mairon would swear he could see a blush on his pale face. But this is Melkor, and even more so than the Lieutenant, his Master does not blush. Really. He does not. He probably has no idea that the body of flesh has such a function since, like many other functions he has not developed, it has nothing to do with conquering the whole of Arda.

'I will do anything my Lord asks of me,' Mairon promises with reverence.

Melkor nods in acknowledgement of his Lieutenant's loyalty. Even in a normal armchair, clad in naught but a simple black robe with an especially decorative fastening adorning the front, he looks so majestic as though he were sitting on his iron throne in his full obsidian armour. This must be due to the crown of Silmarils that decorates his brow; but Mairon remembers him from before the jewels were even conceived in the mind of their creator and – no. Even without them, his Master's might and glory are unmeasurable and apparent at first glance, no matter the garb he is wearing and the jewels he decorates himself with. The gems of Feanaro with all their pretty flashiness are nothing more but a precious trinket.

Mairon admits in the privacy of his mind that he is not really that fond of the Silmarils. Of course, he can appreciate the impeccable craftsmanship as a fellow artist; but other than that, he has little love for the jewels that seem to cause in everybody an obsessive, greedy kind of love. He is pretty certain that given time and appropriate tools, he would be able to craft something just as flawless and obviously much more practical than a handful of shiny gems. This is, however, not something he is ready to claim out loud, especially not in the presence of Melkor who has an unhealthy relationship with the jewels that adorn his crown.

He is drawn out of his thoughts when a foot finds its way to his lap.

Startled to the point that he drops his quill, Mairon blinks down at the foot – quite large and pale and horribly scarred from the line of the toes almost to the ankle, and definitely attached to the rest of Melkor's body – then looks up at his Master, who is staring at him expectantly. When Mairon does nothing, too deeply confused to react in a timely manner, the Vala grows impatient and shows this – by wiggling his toes meaningfully.

'Oh,' Mairon says, finally comprehending what it is he should be doing.

Now, he is no expert in this. In fact, he has never had any opportunity to perform a massage on anyone. The act itself seems either too intimate or too vulgar, depending on the type and purpose. Undeterred by this, he decides he cannot fail his Master's expectations just because of a technicality. If a lowly Elven slave can make a powerful (if inherently stupid) Balrog purr in delight with naught but his hands and a bit of determination, then Mairon can definitely do even better.

He puts both hands on the cool foot, careful to avoid the scar tissue. The foot twitches at the initial contact from Mairon's adequately warm hands and the Maia smiles briefly to himself. His Master is not fond of casual touches, as though each touch carries a risk of exposing the suffering he is going through each day, trapped in his flesh form; so the fact that this situation is happening means that he really does trust Mairon quite a lot. After all, he has indirectly admitted to being in pain, something which he has never done before. Resolved not to fail that trust, the Lieutenant at first lets the limb absorb the heat from his hands before he begins to gently press at the arch and heel with his thumbs and knuckles. At first, the treatment only results in the hard muscles tensing before they relax and Melkor groans softly in pain-laced pleasure.

Mairon freezes.

'Do continue,' Melkor demands instantly in a suspiciously rough voice, wiggling his toes again.

Faced with such an order, the Lieutenant has no choice but to obey. He picks up the gentle massage of the un-scarred areas of the foot, growing increasingly uncomfortable with the presence of the limb in his lap due to, ah, delicate matters. As he goes, he digs his fingers into the muscles a little more forcefully, eliciting another appreciative sound from his Master. Briefly, he wonders why these completely innocent noises suddenly seem so much less innocent; his eyes find the Void-cursed _broadsword training_ report

( _His Master's fingernails were digging into his hips, adding a dash of pain to the almost overwhelming pleasure the Lieutenant felt with his Master so deep inside of him.)_

and he gasps soundlessly, horrified, as his index finger accidentally scratches at the scar tissue on Melkor's foot.

He expects his Master to reflexively remove the limb from his lap. He definitely expects a severe punishment for causing the Vala pain and already he is curling in himself, both terrified of his Master's anger and of the fact that he has betrayed his trust. He does not expect Melkor to let out a strangled, slightly breathless moan.

He stares, wide-eyed, and Melkor stares back.

'I did not tell you to stop,' the Vala says calmly, as though he did not just make a very indecent sound. His voice sounds suspiciously like he is struggling to keep it casual.

Mairon returns his attention to the foot, making sure to be as careful as possible and to keep his hands very much away from the scars. At the same time, he fights the urge to do it again, just to draw that reaction out of his Master again. He finds himself overcome with a morbid kind of curiosity, one he knows will end badly, but still he cannot fully control it. This is just the way he is: all that he sees, he desires to understand, and his Master's behaviour is a secret that lies before him, just inside his reach. The only thing he has to do is let go of his reservations – and become bold.

He can be bold.

'What is on your mind, Mairon?' Asks Melkor, clearly intrigued judging by the tone of his voice. Then, 'Ah-nhhh,' he moans when Mairon purposefully presses his warm fingertips into the fragile scar tissue right above the toes. His whole body arches, then goes slack when Mairon follows the assault with delicate, barely-there touches around the area.

Already Mairon's mind is weaving cunning plans on how to turn this new-found information, this sensitivity of his Master's foot, to his advantage. Treacherous thoughts, fuelled by what he read earlier, come to him: of running his tongue and his sharp teeth against the scars, of lavishing the toes with loving caresses, of teaching Melkor the carnal pleasures that could be bestowed unto him if only he allows it-

No. These imaginings, he cannot entertain them. Not when his Master is this close, not when the Vala could at his leisure dip into his very soul and learn of his perverted fantasies. Too dangerous, too indecent as well, to harbour such desires bordering on blasphemy, because who is his Master if not the mightiest among the gods of Arda? Besides, even were Melkor a lowly Maia like himself, still he would be out of reach for he holds no interest in such matters of the flesh, surely, and he has no idea of physical desires.

And yet, these moans...

'I would have you answer when I ask you a question,' Melkor says, seemingly calm, but there is a certain breathless quality in his voice which has been there before but has now become more pronounced. He removes his foot completely from the Lieutenant's lap and stands to his full height.

'But, Mairon,' he speaks again and draws out the consonants in the Maia's name in a way that ignites a fire inside Mairon's body as well as his soul. Yet Melkor does not stop at that. Slowly, if not gracefully, he approaches Mairon's still sitting form and looms above him for the briefest of moments before sinking to his knees in front of the bewildered – and aroused, so painfully, sinfully aroused – Lieutenant. His crown is gone from his head, discarded on the war table almost carelessly, as though a mere trinket and not the most prized possessions of the Vala.

'I do not need you to answer. I know too well the images that flood your mind. I have seen these visions myself. I desire to see them come to pass,' he finishes in a raspy voice that is barely above a whisper, looking up into Mairon's wide eyes from where he is now knelt between the Maia's slightly spread legs.

This cannot be real.

Words flash before Mairon's vision, all of them somehow variations of apologies and pleas for mercy, but he cannot force any of them out. Enthralled he is by the sight he is faced with, trapped in the fantasy come true that is Melkor like this: eyes locked with his from beneath thick eyelashes, lazy smirk on pale, luscious lips, entire form unguarded, relaxed and _so close_.

Even within the depths of his mind was Mairon unwilling to admit to how much he wants and desires his Master in a physical way. The thought itself is too preposterous to entertain seriously, too forbidden to not keep locked within the depths of his dark soul. He knows there are rumours among the Orc-folk regarding his relationship to the mightiest of the Valar, baseless rumours most likely spread by the likes of Gothmog and Thuringwethil who may find it amusing; never has he given any credit to the gossiping, never has he acknowledged that he knew or cared about it. But he knows he is deigned desirable by the dwellers of Angband and by their allies, and he knows even better that all that lay eyes upon Melkor immediately fear and desire him simultaneously. The smutty piece of writing that landed on his desk as a report is certainly not the first time he has come across the others fantasizing about his non-existent physical relationship with Melkor and it is somewhat understandable – they are both out of reach, so it is a logical step to think of them together.

But himself, he was always careful not to let himself even dream about it. It has been easy to forget such urges when being the Lieutenant to the mightiest of the Valar required constant attention. Battle plans and wartime effort aside, it is up to him to keep the entire fortress in order. He oversees everything, from supply deliveries, through troop training to alliances and treaties between their various peoples united under the banners of Angband. Everyday things that, without his direct supervision, would have crumbled into bits and pieces decades ago if purely because of Melkor's absolute distaste for what he calls _trivialities_. It is always up to Mairon to upkeep the morale in the establishments of their subjects, to see to it that nobody goes hungry, to deploy healers to places stricken with epidemic. He is called upon to resolve arguments between officers and sometimes between chieftains of various allied tribes. Once, he had to judge a Man accused of stealing another's hen. Thing is, as the Lieutenant and right hand of Melkor, he all but rules Angband and normally, he is never left with enough time to think of frivolities.

But now, the trivialities have caught up with him in an unexpected fashion.

'You have the most fascinating ability to get lost in thought at inappropriate moments,' Melkor berates him gently. His hands, Mairon notes, are placed in a rather improper manner on the Lieutenant's thighs. The gloved left hand, the one which has long ago been burned by the Silmarils, is idly playing with the ends of the lacing of Mairon's breeches.

If he hoped his Master would not notice his arousal, well. He should have hoped for something more realistic.

'My Lord,' he mutters, not quite certain what he is expected to do or say.

'I am going to _pleasure you_ ,' Melkor tells him conversationally, 'and I sincerely hope you do not think of other things while I do it.'

It sounds so much like an order, Mairon's brain has trouble understanding the first part. He is not given much time to recover his wits, anyway, because Melkor immediately begins to follow through with his promise. Expertly, as though he has done this many times prior – Mairon is not jealous of his Master having done this before, he has no right to be, he _is not_ , even if he sincerely hopes that Melkor's expertise comes from ridding himself and not another from clothing _–_ the Vala undoes the lacing on Mairon's breaches and frees his straining erection. The leather glove feels queer as Melkor slowly wraps the fingers of his dominant left hand around Mairon's cock and strokes experimentally.

'Oh,' Mairon gasps out and he desperately searches for something to hold on to, because otherwise he will fall, fall, _collapse like a house of cards_ , and he finally finds purchase grabbing fistfuls of Melkor's hair.

 _This is not happening_ , flies through his confused and desire-hazed mind.

'Concentrate on me,' Melkor demands harshly, but his touch remains gentle, almost as though uncertain. Mairon bites his lower lip and nods, allows his gaze to lock with his Master's, daring not to close his eyes or look away.

He is unable to stop the breathy moan that tears out of his lips when Melkor's grip on him turns more firm, then another when, as if encouraged, the Vala strokes him faster, all the while watching him intently. By the fires of Thangorodrim, the pleasure from such a simple caress should not be this overwhelming, but it is, it is, when the one giving it to him is Melkor, it is. Mairon's hips jerk further into the touch, his hands pull on his Master's hair: his body reacts of its own accord, he no longer has full control over what he does.

Melkor's eyes, he notices, widen, then close almost entirely and glaze over when his hair is pulled. The Vala's lips fall open slightly and Melkor licks them, and Mairon has enough, he cannot bear this, he cannot, this is too much for his self-control; with a growl, he leans in and simultaneously pulls Melkor up so that their mouths meet halfway. Hungrily does he kiss his Master, boldly does he push his tongue between Melkor's lips to taste him, unwaveringly does he conquer and take. _This_ , he thinks while he is kissing Melkor, _this_ , and the thought is left unfinished when Melkor kisses back, engages him in a battle for dominance and control. Their tongues meet and intertwine, Mairon's smooth and split and Melkor's rough, and both of them moan at the feeling of the other. Without pausing to think, Mairon bites down and relishes in the taste of blood that bursts from the spot his teeth have pierced: metallic, dark, _empty, how can a taste feel empty_ , and Melkor gasps and with this relinquishes his control, allows Mairon to take it fully.

From then on, it is as though a dream, or a fantasy in early morn:

The Lieutenant has little patience and less restraint left. Still kissing him, he stands and pulls Melkor up to his feet, then pushes him against the table. Obediently, the mightiest of the Valar follows his lead, allows himself to be laid out on the flat surface and spreads his legs to accommodate the Lieutenant between them. His eyes betray a glint of amusement as Mairon, having finally broken the kiss, turns swiftly to the task of disrobing him, but the Lieutenant pays no heed to the expression. Soon, he rids the Vala of it by sinking his teeth into the pale neck, not hard enough to break skin, but definitely enough to leave a bruise. The moan Melkor rewards him with is exquisite: a broken, unconstrained sound, so delicious Mairon has no choice but to capture the Vala's lips once more to swallow the remainder of his pleasure.

'My Lord,' he whispers, thinks of something to say, hesitates and says nothing in the end. Instead, he fumbles with the various fastenings of Melkor's robes, frustrated when they refuse to give up easily. He is saved the trouble when Melkor bats his hands away and simply rips the front of the robe. The sight of him in shredded clothing is – irresistible and Mairon groans, feeling himself becoming impossibly harder. He wants to kiss and lick and bite and scratch every bit of white skin, he wants to lavish all battle scars that adorn his Master's chest and stomach and hips with attention, but the desire turns him impatient; so instead, he pulls Melkor closer towards the edge of the table, sneaking one of his hands between the Vala's long legs.

'Show me,' Melkor demands roughly, 'give me,' and the way he is looking at Mairon ignites new blazing fires in him.

Swiftly does the Lieutenant fall to his knees. He then urges Melkor to hook his legs around his shoulders, which the Vala does, rising up on his elbows to look at what Mairon is planning; he knows not, suspects not, that there is no plan, purely instinct, and that it is simple desire that pushes Mairon to take his Master's erect cock to his hand and slowly drive it into his mouth. How sweet is the near-scream that is ripped out of Melkor at the action, how good the pain when the Vala's hands find Mairon's hair and grip the fiery locks. With his mouth and tongue and throat, Mairon pleases his Master, takes him deep and hot and wet and listens to the sounds that evidence Melkor's pleasure; with his hand, he strokes at the base of his Master's shaft and caresses his balls, rolls them in his fingers all the while sucking and slurping greedily on the length in his mouth. An errant finger finds its way lower, circles deviously the ring of muscles, breaches it with just the tip and retreats, then returns to repeat the motion.

'This... there,' Melkor moans, then all but whines when Mairon lifts his head, releasing his cock from his mouth with a wet sound.

'Bend over the edge of the table,' Mairon orders firmly, fashioning his voice into his best commanding tone even as his heart beats wildly and his face is flushed, and his lips swollen. He rises to his feet to give himself a more threatening aura than he would on his knees.

'How dare you give me commands,' Melkor exclaims in what sounds like righteous anger, but his eyes betray his desire, and so does the way his cock twitches.

'Bend over for me,' Mairon repeats, still managing to make his voice sound calm and collected despite the burning urgency he feels inside, 'or I will force you to bend over. Would you prefer that,' he pauses, then offers Melkor a mocking smirk as he finishes with, 'my Lord?'

Just as Mairon predicted, the Vala hesitates only for a second-two more before getting himself into the desired position. He loses the robes in the process; Mairon, spurred on by an idea, secures his Master's arms on his back and picks the torn fabric up and uses it to tie them, ignoring the half-hearted protest at his actions. He then takes a step back to admire the view.

 _Beautiful,_ he thinks. And oh, Melkor is beautiful, bent over the war table, clad in nothing but the long fitted black glove covering his left hand and most of his arm, tied up with his legs spread, his pretty cock straining and glistening with precome and Mairon's saliva and his shapely behind there for Mairon's viewing pleasure. Melkor's breathing comes strained now, loud in Mairon's ears, a perfect sound. He makes the picture of depravity, of sin itself, poised like this before his Lieutenant. Elated at realizing his privilege, Mairon moans softly before sinking back to his knees behind his Master and spreading his buttocks. He does not pause when Melkor breathlessly asks what he is doing; instead, he leans in and licks around the tight ring of muscle surrounding his Master's hole. Then again, and once more, he laps at the base of Melkor's balls, searching for any traces of taste and finding none; the experience is queer yet thrilling and he does not stop when Melkor pleads with him to, voice hoarse and laced heavily with pleasure difficult to comprehend. No; he goes further, he pushes his tongue against the muscle and past it, inside, and he digs his clawed hands into the skin of Melkor's buttocks, holding him in place as he gives him pleasure this way.

And oh, does he pleasure his Master who is now moaning shamelessly against the hard surface of the table, unable to writhe, unable to escape the Lieutenant's clever tongue which feels so good, too good, as it pushes into him and out, and in, and out, and Mairon laughs in endless amazement, not once pausing in his action even as he recognizes the ancient Valarin words – the curses – falling from Melkor's lips in wanton abandon. So beautiful is he, so responsive, and Mairon tortures him further when he slowly pushes one of his fingers inside of the Vala's body alongside his tongue, one knuckle after the other, so deep, deeper, _almost_ reaching a certain spot, _almost_ hitting it with each thrust of his finger inside, but not quite, not yet. Then the finger is joined with another, opening his Master's body for him, preparing, and then the third finger, and by the time Mairon is done readying him, Melkor is out of his mind with pleasure just on the edge of madness.

In a hurry now, needy for some kind of friction as well from the moans and from the act of depravity performed on his Master, Mairon rises to his feet and closes the distance between them; easily does he position Melkor to lie on his back and wrap those lean, long legs around his hips. The Vala is pliant in his hands, desperate for more of the sweet torture, and Mairon delivers: he wastes no time in breaching his Master's entrance, he thrusts once and is fully sheathed. Panting, he leans down to lavish Melkor's scarred chest and abdomen with wet kisses and nips. The feeling of Melkor so tight around him, so good, is driving him insane with want, and the sight of his mighty Vala so subdued and yet so free in his passion does nothing for his restraint. From the beginning, he develops a fast pace in his thrusts and he knows he will not last long, he cannot last long. In a raspy voice, he demands,

'Come for me,' and wraps his hand firmly around Melkor's cock, strokes him relentlessly, takes in his Master's beautiful, writhing form, the way he shakes his head as though denying him, the way tasteless, scentless sweat glistens on the Vala's perfectly shaped body.

'Scream my name,' he demands. He pulls one of Melkor's legs from around his hips, hooks it on his shoulder, which changes the angle of his thrusts – and his Master cries out, then again, when that spot inside of him is hit repeatedly, when Mairon pounds into him mercilessly, stroking him just right at the same time, fast and hard and unforgiving,

'Scream my name when you come for me,' the Lieutenant commands harshly and after a few more thrusts, when he is biting his lip and struggling for the self-control he needs to last, he realizes what Melkor needs and he leans in, whispers, 'My Lord,' and bites the Vala's neck at the spot where before he bruised it, breaks skin, laps at the blood and-

'Mai-Mairon, ah, Mai-' Melkor cries out before his back arches and his head falls back and hits the surface of the table, and he is coming, coating Mairon's hand and both of their stomach's with his release.

To Mairon, this is the breaking point; witnessing his Master's orgasm at his doing, he follows suit, thrusts once more and again, and releases his seed deep within the Vala's sacred body. In his white hot moment of elation, he forgets anything exists but the rapture, and the love he has for his Master, and-

Too soon his sanity returns to him and he hastily removes himself from between his Master's legs. With distaste he notices his release dribbling down Melkor's thigh. Yet Melkor does not move, lies motionless on the table as though weary. Uncertainly, Mairon closes the distance between them again and that is when Melkor stirs.

A weird emotion takes purchase of Mairon's soul when he sees the tired smile his Vala gives him, and in a surge of unexpected – unwarranted – protectiveness, he picks Melkor up and holds him in his arms. Belatedly, he remembers that Melkor's arms are still tied and he removes the cloth binding them, awaiting reproach but being pulled back into the embrace instead. Power and energy hum all round them in Melkor's mighty aura and Mairon realizes:

Had his Master wanted to free himself, he would have easily done so at any moment.

He has no idea why he did not think about it before – possibly because all rational thought fled him in the heat of the moment – but now his mind is puzzled even as he feels the comfortable coolness of Melkor's body so close to him.

'Did you enjoy this?' Melkor asks after a while of silence disturbed only by their breathing slowly returning to normal and fading away. There is a foreign note in his voice, as though reluctance, which Mairon's mind latches onto and tries to wrap around.

'My Lord,' the Lieutenant says softly, 'I have never been so fulfilled in my entire life, yet I feel that it is I who must ask: was the act we performed a pleasure to you as it was for me?'

'Indeed, you must ask?' The Vala laughs, amused, and still clings to him in an uncharacteristic display of closeness. 'Oh, my precious Mairon. Would I have allowed you to do to me something like this had I not liked it? Would I have participated so eagerly in the act of making love with you had it not pleased me?'

For a breathless instant, time stops for Mairon while he takes the words in and then:

'Making love?' He asks, measuring the words against his tongue. Love. Yes, his mind confirms. He loves his Master with a blazing intensity that should scare him, yet it does not; instead, it fills him with a sense of purpose, it drives him to overcome the limits of his own potential, it shapes him into the force that is capable of conquering the entire universe for his beloved Melkor. Worship, admiration, fear, yes, these are also there, but love – love is what first made him follow the rebellious Vala back when the world looked different and the future seemed simpler.

Never before has he hoped to be loved back.

'It is as though you do not know me at all,' Melkor says, shaking his head before he whispers in Mairon's ear, 'I have always held you in high regard. Have I not made you my Lieutenant even before you performed great deeds on the battlefield? Have I not gifted you with lordship over this very fortress? Have I not, in recent decades, given you practically full reign over the kingdom that is rightfully mine but has become so boring to myself over time? Oh, precious Mairon: have I not placed a nigh-irrational amount of trust in you?'

'You have, my Lord,' the Lieutenant admits.

'To this day, you have had many failings,' Melkor continues, still whispering so close to his ear and stroking his jaw gently with his gloved left hand, 'yet even were you to betray my trust, even were you to lose this war that you keep waging for me and have us both cast into the Void for an eternity and beyond, my precious Mairon, even then: I would still have love for you.'

Words cannot describe what Mairon is feeling at the precise moment when the declaration is spoken. If he was happy a moment before, this now is – bliss, as though his entire being has been remade in the forges of his Master's regard. He is speechless, his lips move wordlessly, his heart beats too fast, his whole body trembles slightly. He does not cry, that would be lame, but he can admit he is very close to tears. This is so far beyond anything he ever dared to dream of; and for this brief instant, when his mighty Vala allows himself to be cuddled, sitting butt-naked on the war table in the audience chamber where anybody could walk upon them, well, for that moment Mairon feels completely fulfilled.

Then, Melkor asks, 'What is this?' and reaches for something nearby on the table. Mairon looks up at him through the glaze of contentment and his eyes widen in horror when he recognizes the fine quality parchment, undoubtedly covered in red ink that forms finely shaped script. The contents, he can guess rather easily as he observes with growing apprehension as the corners of his Master's lips begin rising into a devious grin.

'So,' Melkor says once he is done reading the text with unusual thoroughness. 'Broadsword training? Rather accurate,' he remarks, shamelessly looking down at both their crotches, his grin becoming even wider when he notices that their abdomens are covered in the drying, sticky product of his release. 'This is what you entertain yourself with when everybody thinks you are working so diligently, my cunning precious Mairon?' He asks teasingly. There is definitely a somewhat rough edge to his voice too – with a start, Mairon realizes his Master has already become half hard again.

Were he anybody but himself, he would have blushed. Since he is himself, the Lieutenant valiantly fights the redness threatening to spread across his freckled cheeks. For now, he is winning, but he wonders for how long he will be able to keep up the appearances.

'I do not know why this is here,' he protests vehemently. 'I asked Gothmog for training report and somehow, this ended up between my paperwork.'

It is the truth, but Mairon knows that Melkor does not believe him, or pretends not to believe him just to be able to tease him mercilessly forever. The latter is more likely.

'So it is Gothmog's fantasies you read in between boring work?' Asks the Vala. He smirks and adds, 'It seems we have a lot to discuss, my precious, overworked Lieutenant. But as pleasant as this has been,' he indicates the mess they have made of themselves and the table, 'I would rather we moved the conversation somewhere more comfortable. I suggest my chambers. I am afraid I require another foot massage and it would be much better for my overall well-being if it were conducted as I am comfortably laid in my bed. Have this room cleaned, there is after all a war meeting here in two days time,' he reminds Mairon before he finally frees himself from the Maia's embrace and gets up from the table. He picks up his discarded, torn robe and uses it to wipe the stickiness from his stomach. Then, he throws it to the floor and finally retrieves his crown. Once it is placed on his dishevelled head, somehow, the cold light of the Silmarils gives him a commanding, godly aura unrivalled by any even as he walks with a barely concealed limp towards the door, unashamed of his nakedness.

'Once you are done, please join me in the bedroom. Clothing is not required nor, indeed, is it welcome for the scenarios I have in mind,' the Vala announces before leaving Mairon alone in the audience chamber. Despite the situation being rather overwhelming on the whole, Mairon does not need to be told twice.

There are definite disadvantages to being the Lieutenant to the mightiest of the Valar, of course, and yet, as very scrupulous scientific studies have proven, the advantages outweigh them by far.

(Gothmog is still going to die as soon as Mairon sees him, though.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> You have been warned. If any brains have been broken by this travesty of a fic, I do not take responsibility :D


End file.
